An Artist's Touch
by Mercury Gray
Summary: After his prison term, Ian begins having some strange dreams. And after beginning a new type of therapy, he falls into another priceless treasure stealing scheme, and also falls in love. Given up on Do not expect updates
1. The Prisoner

"Some one's got to go to jail, Ben."

* * *

Prison wasn't agreeing with Ian Howe. It wasn't as though he'd never been here before-it was the simple fact that he'd rather be in more sophisticated company.

He was a man of some considerable means, used to gourmet food prepared by a private chef, hand tailored suits from Saville row, and intelligent dining companions.

To put it delicately, this was a step down. A major step. And to put it frankly, the prison psychologist was not happy. The prisoner Ian Howe, ID number 42168, was showing signs of depression. He wasn't fraternizing with other prisoners while given leisure time, he sat alone and didn't talk to anyone at meals, and he was increasingly bad tempered. He spent most of his time reading. Having already exhausted the small prison library, he now spent most of his time on the prison's computers, reading news articles and stories on the internet.

It was two years after his original incarceration that Ian began to have dreams. That was when he asked for the sketch book.

It was an original request-most prisoners asked for chocolates, cigarettes, their mother's butter cookies…but the review board could find nothing wrong with his request, and so Ian got his sketch book.

The psychologist had thought it a good idea if Ian was able to put some of his thoughts on paper, and so reviewed the drawings, notes and small paragraphs every week. And she was confused. She hadn't had too many patients who were…well, artistic, and there was no denying these were good-but she couldn't understand why.

Which is what found Ian back in her office, staring, bored, at the degree from Harvard on the wall behind her desk. Emily VanDenenn, Magna Cum Laude.

"Mr. Howe, due to your…present state of mind, the prison review board and I have agreed that you have need of a special kind of therapy in which I am not certified. Therefore, it has been arranged that you will stay at a hospital about fifty miles from here and have sessions with one of the experts in the field, Dr. Chrysler. I think she may be able to understand your dreams and the reason for them much better than I can." Emily looked across her desk-Ian sat up a little and nodded, not exactly thrilled.

"Your first appointment is today, and I shall be going with you. Dr. Chrysler is also a history minor, so….you may feel more comfortable talking to her." Emily said, wanting to fill the silence that so often surrounded her in this prison. Ian's lips curved into what could be taken as a smile, and Emily nodded once more and buzzed for the guards.

She grabbed her coat and followed behind the two burly security personnel, getting into the front seat of the armored Cadillac.

The heavy gates at the front of Twin Willows Hospital told Ian two things. One, he wasn't being set free-he was being transferred. The other was that this was not a hospital-It was a loony bin.

"So now I'm crazy…" he muttered to himself. His sketch book was tucked safely under his arm. It went everywhere with him, it seemed, and that was part of what worried Dr. Vendenenn. These pictures bordered on obsession.

The marbled hallways and carpeting were a far cry from the stark whiteness of a government prison. Dr. Vandenenn seemed happy to be out of the whiteness, and Ian could say that he was, too. This was almost too happy, though.

The doctor flashed her laminated card at the secretary at the front desk. "Mr. Howe to see Dr. Chrysler, Ivy?" She asked the gray haired secretary, who nodded, checking her lists.

"Yes, Em, she's in her office. You know how to get there."

Dr. Vandenenn nodded and strode purposefully on. Watching the patients, Ian was glad they'd let him wear his street clothes today-the orange jumpsuit would just add to the effect. Dr. Chrysler already saw enough lunatics, and she didn't need a criminally insane one too.

"Ah, Dr. Chrysler. Good to see you." Dr. Vandenenn said, putting out her hand to shake with the woman behind the door. Ian was shuffled forward through the door, sat down in a chair and made to wait while the two doctors conferred outside in the hall. Presently, Dr. Chrysler came back, sitting down at her desk and looking at the guards standing imposingly behind her new patient.

"You can leave, gentlemen. I assure you, I'll be fine. I have a black belt in karate. Oh, and please take the handcuffs before you leave."

The guards shrugged, taking the handcuffs off and silently exiting, taking up posts right outside the door.

"So, Mr. Howe. Nice to meet you." The doctor said, holding out a hand so he could shake. Hesitantly, he did. "Now, my colleague Dr. Vandenenn has told me you've been having some dreams." Ian nodded, holding the sketchbook closer. The doctor noted something down on a legal pad and looked back at him. Her eyes, he noted, were a curious shade of brown, almost hazel. She wore glasses, simple black wire oval frames.

"Tell me about them." She asked, leaning back in her chair. Her face was passive.

Ian looked down at the sketchbook in his hands. "I don't want to." He said. The Doctor raised her eyebrows and stood, sitting on the corner of her desk, arms crossed.

"May I see your sketchbook?" she asked, politely. Ian held out the pad, and she flipped through it. "These are very good." She said, pausing at a few pages.

"Thank you." Ian muttered.

"I take it, then, that you've been dreaming about her?" Dr. Chrysler said, opening the pad and showing him a portrait of a woman. Ian nodded. "She's very beautiful." The doctor said. "Do you know her?"

Ian shook his head. "No…I've never seen her before." The doctor nodded, noted something down on her pad, and moved to another chair, across from him. Ian turned so he could see her.

"Now, Dr. Vandenenn tells me you don't fraternize with the other prisoners much. Are you lonely?" she asked, looking at him with –could that be sympathy?- in her eyes.

Ian sighed. "I'm not the type to want to associate with petty thieves, doctor."

The doctor raised her eyebrows. "I guess attempting to steal the Declaration of Independence and nearly succeeding puts you a step above them." She said, nodding in agreement. "This will seem a strange question, Mr. Howe, but…did you have any imaginary friends as a child?"

Ian looked affronted she would even ask such a question. "No." he said flatly. The doctor nodded, thinking hard about something.

"This woman-does she have a name?"

"Not one she's told me." Ian remarked offhandedly. The doctor cracked a smile.

"Ah. So…what happens in these dreams?"

Ian looked at his shoes and blushed. It wasn't exactly something he was going to tell her…

"Mr. Howe-ah, may I call you Ian?- Good. Ian, I've had entire sexual fantasies with everyone from rock stars to the neighbor's dog recounted to me-I've gotten used to it, believe me." The Doctor reassured him. Ian shook his head.

"It's all in my sketchbook."

The doctor looked-there it was, sketch after sketch of a woman, clothed, unclothed, reclining, kneeling, and staring off into space. Some of the pictures had notes next to them, almost as though he kept a diary.

"She came again today-it's starting to scare me…I'm not thinking of anything else. My book is nearly half full, and I've only had it three months."

Another entry. "I've decided I love her lips. They're perfect- smooth, soft, warm…why am I thinking about this? She's not even real!"

The doctor read another entry, and her eyebrows shot up. "Interesting." was all she said. Ian watched her, waiting for the schizophrenia diagnosis.

"Well, Ian…I don't think you have any mental disorder, I just think you're lonely. Dreams, the medical community have found, are either recycled thoughts or an expression of subconscious desire, for acceptance, love…" she shrugged and paused. "Sex. I find your case to be a combination of the two. Now, I'm not going to prescribe anything, because you really don't need it, but I am going to advise Dr. Vandenenn to continue with your sketches. Write more-write all of your dreams down. That may help you. I see that Emily has you coming back in a week- are you staying here?"

"No." Ian said, almost disappointed to leave this place. He didn't want to go back to the orange jumpsuits and the people who didn't know what on earth he was talking about when he quoted Shakespeare over dinner. The doctor nodded knowledgeably and rapped on the door, calling the guards back in.

"Well Ian, I'll see you next week then. And remember-write all of your dreams down."

Emily watched her patient walk back to the Cadillac, and turned to her colleague. "So…what does he have, Meredith?"

"I believe Mr. Howe is lonely for an intelligent conversation, Em. I think talking with me may be of help to him. Bring him back next week-I'll arrange a bigger time slot."

"And his dreams? What about them?"

Dr. Meredith Chrysler shrugged. "I think he needs a girlfriend. Which, unfortunately, is not one of our options. See you next week, Em. And tell me if anything strange happens in regards to his condition."

--

Ian sat in his cell, annoyed. He wasn't insane…was he? Being in a little box all the time did things to the mind, it was said. He knew Dr. Chrysler knew he wasn't going mad. She had seemed to like him.

He turned to the small table in the corner, laying his pad down and opening it to a new page. Then he began sketching the doctor. He recalled the fine lines in her face, the wisp of dark hair that curled over her ear, the necklace she wore at her throat.

Then he began to write. "Visited Dr. Meredith Chrysler today-I think she's actually quite nice. I'm looking forward to going back next week-her office is a welcome change from Dr. Vandenenn's…

--

On his next visit to Dr. Chrysler's office, she was on the phone. She looked over at him, waved, motioned for him to sit, and wrote something down, never breaking her conversation.

"Yes….Yes…No, I don't….Yes, that's right, the one in the papers. Yes, Gabe, he's here right now, I'm sure he'll be thrilled. Thank you. See you in Chicago. Tata, Darling." The doctor hung up the phone.

"Who were you talking to?" Ian asked, just a little curious. Dr. Chrysler smiled.

"A friend of mine who lives in Chicago. I was talking to her about a few things, and she and I have devised an excellent treatment for you."

Ian must have looked either suspicious or very confused, because the psychologist laughed. "Don't worry, I expect you'll like it very much. After reviewing some of my notes, it occurs to me that you are in an obviously foreign environment, and because of this lack of some comforts you're accustomed to you are feeling a little depressed. I have arranged with your case worker, Dr. VanDenenn and the Federal Review board that you are to spend several weeks in Chicago with one of my friends, who happens to be a patron of the Art Institute. You will spend several hours there every day to relax, and de stress by using your sketchbook. How does this sound?"

Ian thought it sounded extremely stupid, but if it were a chance to get out of prison and the mental hospital, he'd take his only option. "Sounds lovely." He said, trying to hide a bit of sarcasm. Dr. Chrysler's business face flickered for a moment, and he thought he heard her chuckle, but it passed quickly.

--

The next day found Ian Howe, Prisoner number 42168 on a plane en route to Chicago, quite pleased that he was out.

* * *

HAH! The National Treasure Category finally got added! So-as a new Years Present to you all- My NEW FANFIC! 

Lots of love to Terreis, who gave me my new muse, Ian, who's very pleased to be starring in his own fanfic.

_Ian blushes_ Isn't he just the cutest?

Also lots of love to everyone who's commented on me in the last year, especially those folks who came and read every single thing I posted. Huggles to you all!

(And don't worry-Ian's not going crazy)


	2. The Frenchwoman

HAAH! Chapter two!

(And I apologize for making you all think Ian was going insane-he's not. It was a cheesy plot device. This whole story kind of has a cheesey plot device. I've failed_. hangs head in shame )_

* * *

Dr. Chrysler handed Ian a pair of sunglasses before he got off the plane. "You're going to want them-Chicago isn't called the Windy City for nothing."

It took Ian several minutes to figure out that 'Windy City' means that the city of Chicago, aside from being prone to large gusts of wind, is also more prone to gossip. He hastily slipped his glasses on after several people on the street looked at him oddly, and one whispered "Hey- I think I've seen him somewhere before."

Dr. Chrysler smiled at the look of fear on Ian's face. "I don't like to do this, but I told you so. Here's your pass for the Art Institute-" she gave him a plastic ID card, which he slipped in his jacket pocket, as well as his ever present pad of paper. "And your sketchpad, if you'd care to take notes. Gabrielle hasn't told me where she's meeting us, but she's very fond of the Impressionist style, so I'll assume we'll find her with the Monets." Dr. Chrysler opened the door, waving her pass at the blue uniformed security guard at the entrance, who smiled and nodded them in.

The silence that surrounded the museum was almost holy, as if the visitors, too in awe to speak, feared they'd disturb the reverence these works of art were accorded. Ian clipped the pass to his suit coat and followed his therapist, wondering why on earth she'd brought him here.

He'd seen many of these paintings before, works of the old masters, the impressionists, the surrealists, the modernists. He'd owned a few of them, too. But as he looked at one painting, a large canvas in a heavy, gilt frame, the woman in it seemed to have something the others of the period (Early 18th century, the placard had said) didn't.

It was a very traditional looking painting- it's subject, a young slip of a woman perhaps in her late twenties wearing a gown that looked to weigh more than she did, her white wig finishing the impressive picture of pre- French Revolution wealth. Her name, too, almost seemed to heavy for her. "Gabrielle Marie Élise Victoire Campion, Comptess de Saintonge. 1774-Artist Unknown."

"I rather hate to think people wore those wigs every day. It was dreadfully uncomfortable, having to pose for five hours. I thought I'd die." A female voice said from behind him, amused.

Ian turned around to see a young woman, somewhat tall, with a dancer's body, smiling up at the painting. Ian looked at the painting, the woman, the painting, and then back at the woman again. Dr. Chrysler said nothing, but watched the confused man with a silent smile.

"It is the latest offering from the School of the Art Institute-How do you think they did in imitating the Classical style?" the blonde asked, holding out her hand. "Gabrielle Campion. And you must be Ian Howe."

Ian was speechless. "They…did very well. I could not tell the difference between a work of the period and this one."

"Do not feel ashamed, neither can many of our visitors. Though some do ask why an upstanding institution like the Art Institute has a work by an unknown painter. Come, it's nearly eleven, and lunch will not wait for us." Gabrielle said brightly, leading the doctor and Ian down stairs to the Garden Restaurant.

Unfolding her impeccably white napkin to cover the flawless gray suit, Ms. Campion looked at the menu, setting it down as the uniformed waiter came up to take their orders.

"We shall have a bottle of your Chateau Milan Merlot, and a plate of Herbed Chèvre Al Forno, please."

"Madam would like three glasses as well?" the waiter inquired. Gabrielle nodded curtly, and the man went back to the kitchen, returning shortly with a wine bucket, the merlot, and three glasses. Gabrielle watched him pour it with a hawk like eye, then smiled and took the glass he offered her.

"Cheers." Dr. Chrysler said with a smile, taking a sip and looking down at the menu.

"Cheers." Ian said, a little sullen, and quite drawn in. There was something eerily familiar about the way Gabrielle spoke…the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He shook the thought from his head and looked back down at the menu. It had been so long since he'd had a good steak, a perfectly baked plate of mussels, a quiche like a feather…gourmet food almost seemed like speaking a foreign language.

"I would advise the steak- I phoned ahead this morning and found out their meat is the freshest on the market." Gabrielle said, leaning across the table slightly. "Knowing you for a man of higher tastes, however, New York strip steak may not be to your liking. Ah-our Chèvre."

She watched the waiter put down the plate of dainty slices of the goat's cheese and their accompanying baguette. "The French really are the only people in the world who really know how to make a good cheese. The English-" Gabrielle pointed with a knife, with which she was cutting her bread, at Ian, "Occasionally come across a good recipe…the Americans-" she looked at Meredith, who chuckled and went back to her bread, "Have no sense of good fromage whatsoever except how to use it in cooking, and the rest of the world cannot make goat's milk work in anything but tea." She pronounced. Ian, looking down at the downy white cheese in front of him, nearly worshiped the air in which her voice pronounced 'I am indeed of a higher culture!'

"It's been a while since I ate goat's cheese." He said with a smile, taking a bite of the buttered bread and chèvre and smiling at the smooth taste of a good aged cheese that one just doesn't get from Grilled cheese made with Colby-Jack.

"Yes, the American prison system, I am told, has atrocious food. Along with every other public institution in this country." Gabrielle said with a sigh. "It makes me glad I own a house in France and employ a French cook."

Ian looked at her. "You're not from France?" he asked, curious.

Gabrielle laughed a little. "Actually, I was raised there- I'm an American citizen by parentage. Tell me…a little bit about yourself, Mr. Howe. Why did you come here? To America?"

Ian shrugged, dabbing at his face with his napkin. "A business opportunity." He said shortly. Gabrielle nodded.

"You are heavily invested in…natural resources, am I not correct?"

" Diamonds and the like, yes." Ian answered, now keenly interested. "How did you know?"

"When the department of justice let you come with me, I had to have a look at your file. I know practically everything about you. But it makes for a wonderful conversation starter. Graduated Oxford with a degree in…Business, was it? A minor in history?" Ian nodded. "A very interesting combination. And then you made headlines- One of Britain's most eligible bachelors, Investor of the year, one of Time Magazine's Top ten people to watch in business…the list goes on. And then some years later you met Benjamin Gates…and the adoring public knows the rest." She said, looking at him with a smile and taking a sip out of her glass.

The waiter had come back. "Are Madams and M'sieu ready to order?"

"Mussels Marinière, please." Meredith said, handing the waiter her menu.

"Pan Seared Chicken Breast, if you'd be so kind- and a house salad, thank you. Rosemary Vinaigrette, on the side." Gabrielle said, her manner all business.

Ian glanced at the menu again. "Ah- the steak, thank you."

"How would monsieur like his steak?" the waiter asked politely.

"Medium, thank you." Ian said, swallowing almost nervously, his throat now very dry.

Gabrielle watched the waiter leave, and her businesslike expression softened. "I…am sorry for my curtness of tone- I have a reputation for being very brusque that needs to be upheld." She said quietly, leaning in conspiratorially. "Have you seen enough of the Institute?" she asked in a normal tone of voice, sipping her wine as if she had said nothing.

"Yes, I think we've had enough art for the Day." Dr. Chrysler said with a small nod. Ian nodded as well.

"Good- I'll take you over to my apartment after we've finished with lunch."

* * *

Gabrielle made a quick call on her cell phone just as they ordered dessert, and when they'd finished eating, a valet had brought her black BMW around to the front.

Ian had forgotten how bad city traffic could be- it took them twenty minutes to get to her apartment, only a few blocks away.

"I'd normally have walked," Gabrielle apologized, "But driving a car in this city is a status symbol, and I don't feel like walking down the street dressed to the nines like I am. When you live in this city long enough you learn things like that." She said with a smile.

* * *

After parking the car and taking an elevator up through the posh floors of the Lakeside Towers, Gabrielle stepped off the elevator into her penthouse apartment.

"Well-welcome to your home for the next month or so." Gabrielle said, dropping her bag on the black upholstered couch. Dr. Chrysler smiled.

"Well, I suppose I can leave you in Gabrielle's capable hands. Have fun, Ian- and remember, write everything down." The doctor blew a kiss to Gabrielle and stepped back into the elevator. The businesswoman waved and then led Ian off down the hall.

"This is where you'll be sleeping- my room is just down the hall there, and I'll show you the kitchen. Eugène, my cook, you won't meet until tomorrow. Normally he doesn't come in until lunchtime, so you'll also have to help me with breakfast occasionally."

The kitchen was a tasteful combination of stainless steel and white flecked black granite. Ian ran a hand over the countertop, savoring the feel of an artist's kitchen. If he had thought the restaurant's food had been a foreign language, he had a feeling this would be like an Italian Opera- the finest of it's kind.

"You like it? Eugène helped me design it." Gabrielle said with a small smile, watching his un voiced delight.

"I do like it. It's very…very you." Ian said, looking back at her. Gabe smiled, and gave a little laugh.

"Thank you. Here-let's get you settled in, and I'll show you the rest of the apartment."

* * *

Half an hour later, lounging on his kingsized bed in one of the guest rooms and listening to La Boheme on the state of the art stereo system, Ian had to admit that being with Gabrielle did have it's perks.

* * *

I always thought Ian was a kind of Opera guy- he claims he likes classical, but I think it's to make me shut up…

Shoutouts!

**Terreis-** thank you! And no, this friend doesn't play a significant role. Note the sarcastic typing tone. Yes, I already told you. She does indeed.

_ ian kisses merc> merc looks surprised>_ Why, Ian, where did that come from?

_ Ian mutters something about being put up to it by Terreis>_

**Tyler-** _Huggle_ even if you don't like hugs, tyler. Thanks for the comment. I'm really glad someone I see daily likes my work, too.

**Meredith A. Jones**- As it happens, Meredith is one of my all time favorite names. Huggles so-you're in good company! And thanks-I didn't feel right shamelessly self promoting, so I wrote myself off. I really hope you don't mind, but I'm glad you like it!

**LadyDeb1970**- HEY! I know you… I guess this is the first work of mine ( I think) you've read. I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it!

**Draconian Sapian**- thanks! I hope you'll keep reading!

**Psyco elf**- I'm going, I'm going! I hope you liked chapter two!

**Dread Lady Freya**- hugs Glad to have you back! And very glad to know you liked it. I hope I've apologized enough for the gaping plot holes. I attempted to patch them up in later chapters.

**Angoliel**- wonderfully put, my friend! Let us cackle evilly together! Maniacal laugh

OH! I nearly forgot. Ian-hug all the wonderful reviewers.

Ian: Do I have to?

Merc nods

Ian: Oh, okay…

HUGS FOR EVERYONE!


	3. High Fashion

Ha! Chapter three! I am a writing menace.

First, a little housekeeping.

_ hauls Ian back from psycho elf >_

**NE TOUCHE PAS MON MUSE!** (for those of you who aren't French students like myself, that would be 'Don't touch my muse!'

I know Ian's adorable and sexy, but he's mine. You all can't have him. I got him before you did. Nyah.

Don't own it, except Ian-and he is mine. Terreis said so. Hmph.

* * *

Ian awoke the next morning quite disoriented. He wasn't looking up at the cement ceiling of the federal prison-he was looking up at a painted ceiling. And this wasn't his bed-this was an actual mattress.

Ian looked over on his other pillow; half expecting to find some sort of goddess-like woman there and then realize this was one of those dreams where you think you've woken up.

He didn't. Then he remembered where he was.

Following the smell of eggs, he found his way to the kitchen, where he found his host banging away with a smile her pots and pans.

"Hope you like eggs. Sleep well?" she asked cheerfully. Ian looked at the clock.

"It's only seven?" he asked, dubious. Gabrielle nodded. "I'll have to warn you now I'm not a morning person." He said, very conscious that his hair was probably a mess as he ran a hand through it. "And yes, I slept better than I have in months."

Gabe laughed, and Ian, in his half awake state, thought it sounded a lot like…water bubbling over rocks, or tiny bells, or something incredibly poetic. "Maybe I should tell the prison the reason you were having dreams was because you have sub standard mattresses and you couldn't sleep."

Ian snorted. Gabe smiled at him, and opened a cabinet, getting out two plates and two forks, then dishing her eggs onto both. "We're going out today." She said decidedly, sitting down at the small kitchen table and putting a plate in front of him.

"May I inquire where?" Ian asked, as polite as he could be in the morning.

" A few places downtown. We need to get you a wardrobe fitting of your status as…Well, you're Ian Howe, for heaven's sakes! The entire business community knows you!" She said with a smile.

"That was a long time ago." Ian said with a reminiscent smile.

Gabrielle shrugged. "You are still a man of business, and a man of business does not own a singular suit. My father used to say that all the time. So, like it or not, we are buying you clothes. Think of it as…several years worth of Christmas and birthday presents from me." She said with a smile. "Now eat up. We've got a long day a head of us."

* * *

After Ian had showered, gotten dressed, combed his hair and in general had made himself somewhat presentable to the fashion world, Gabrielle dragged him out of the house.

"Now, we're going to see a friend of mine, you may have heard of him. Austen Steele? He owns a little boutique downtown, and we're going to get you fitted. I wouldn't trust anyone else with my clothes. My father also used to say that you can judge the quality of a man by his tailor." She quipped with a smile as they walked down Michigan Avenue.

Ian adjusted his clothes from the wrinkles Gabrielle had made when she tugged on his sleeve just before entering the boutique.

"Gabrielle! Chere Amie, how are you! A kiss for Austen!" A thin man with heavy black square framed glasses and a striped shirt rolled to his elbows greeted them, kissing Gabrielle on both cheeks in the French fashion.

"Austen! I am wonderful."

"And this must be Ian." Austen said with a smile.

Ian held out a hand. "Nice to meet you." he said, wondering how he was going to survive this.

Austen grinned cheekily, shaking Ian's hand. "Ooh la la, a polite one! Gabrielle, you bring me a very nice man," he giggled.

Gabrielle laughed. "Now, Austen, you see the state of this suit? I'm bringing him to the Institute's annual fete, and, well..."

"You can't bring him like that. I understand, mon amie, I understand completely." Austen said with a smile. "Never fear, I will make him date worthy. Oh, heavens, my dear man, what were you thinking when you pulled this over your head," Austen murmured, touching Ian's collar and running a finger down his arm. "Come on, we'll pick the right colors for you."

Ian repressed a shiver and allowed the designer to pull him into the depths of the shop. Over his shoulder, he glanced at Gabrielle, who smirked at his silent plea for help.

"Now, Gabrielle-a black suit, yes?" Austen asked.

"And several shirts...I think Egyptian cotton would do nicely." The young woman suggested.

Austen nodded, pulling up a chair and snapping his fingers for his assistant, who came over with a tape measure and began scribbling down dictation. "No blue suits-shirts are fine, but no sport coats. Khakis...possible. Pink won't match his complexion. I'd say...an autumn." Austen thought out loud, looking at him again. "Yes, autumn."

Ian felt uncomfortable with the look Austen gave him. It was a look that should have been on a woman. Ian would have preferred it being on a woman, and wished that he were sleeping, so he could be rescued by his dream lady.

"Has anyone ever told you you have wonderful eyes? Gabe, have you seen his eyes? They are beautiful. It would be a sin not to bring them out. And his hair! I will give credit to your barber, he knows what he is doing."

Thank heavens the barber at prison had only cut his hair once. Ian had to shamefully admit he liked it longer.

The brown-haired assistant paused in her frantic scribbling and looked up smiling, waiting for Austen to bark more orders.

"Tape measure!" Austen said, and the young woman quickly gave it to him. Austen began his measurements, the assistant scribbling away. Ian really wished he were somewhere else. The energetic little designer was making him uncomfortable.

Gabrielle looked as though she were actually enjoying this, and did not wither under his cold gaze. She actually smiled and winked.

"I think he'd look good in turtlenecks- have you taken him shopping for shoes yet?" Austen asked, thinking aloud, measuring down Ian's pant leg and inspecting his shoes, loafers that looked like they'd seen better days.

Gabe shook her head. "Yes, he needs dress shoes."

Austen stepped back, and then called in another two assistants, who brought in several fabric samples. Ian was feeling like a mannequin. The time came for Ian to try on a couple of shirts. He opted for the dressing room, knowing Austen would get too much pleasure from watching him strip. "Take your time, love," the designer called after him.

* * *

Ian showed off the first one, a plain black-cuffed shirt. Austen smiled. "Now doesn't that just scream HOT?" he asked Gabe, who chuckled a little.

Ian scowled, and Gabe laughed harder. "You look wonderful, Ian." She said, barely containing her laughs at the expression on his face.

"I feel like a Ken doll," he muttered, going back to the dressing room to try on a different shirt.

* * *

"Oh, I was right, pink isn't his color!" Austen said triumphantly. "Take it off, please, it burns the eyes. No discussion." he said decidedly.

Ian was all too happy to comply.

* * *

The next shirt was a simple, cream color, to be worn with classic colored suits. Ian felt much more comfortable with that color.

Austen clapped his hands. "That is your look, my friend. Margot!" The assistant ran over. "Cream is Mr. Howe's color. Mark it down!" the assistant smiled and scribbled away, standing at her employer's elbow.

"Now, the cornflower blue, please." Austen said to the now closed dressing room door. Ian shivered-his shirt had been half off, and Austen's voice carried so that it seemed the man was right next to him.

When stepped out, Austen's mouth fell open, and he leaned over to whisper to Gabrielle. She smiled widely and nodded. Ian cocked an eyebrow. He didn't trust this effeminate designer for a second.

"Yes...yes, we're keeping that color. Mark it down, Margot." The assistant scribbled it down just as the two other assistants brought several pairs of suits. Ian handed them the shirts, which they brought back to Margot to confer on.

"Try the black one first, darling!" Austen said before looking at his dictated notes. Ian shook his head. Darling was too much.

* * *

"Ian, you were born to wear a suit. That cut is perfect for you." Austen decided. "Don't even try the others on." Ian nodded, looked at himself in the mirror, and went to change.

Austen turned to Gabrielle. "Your...charge is quite the hottie, Gabe. Where'd you pick him up?" he whispered.

Gabe smiled. "A friend of a friend." Gabrielle waggled her eyebrows, giving her information a bit of a different meaning.

Ian came out, his suit folded, handing it to an assistant. Austen got up. "Well, we should have your tailoring done in a few days-I'll send it by your house, Gabrielle. In the meantime- I would advise shopping for some...less formal clothes as well."

Ian nodded and exited to the front of the shop quickly. Austen leaned over to whisper in Gabe's ear. "Is he sleeping with you?"

Gabrielle snorted with a smile. "No." she said with a little laugh in her voice.

Austen's eyebrows rose. "Not yet, you mean." the designer said with a conspiratorial grin.

* * *

"He wasn't hitting on you, Ian." Gabrielle said as they walked down the street and going into Eddie Bauer.

"I was just a little uncomfortable, that's all. What did he say to you?" he asked suspiciously.

Gabe smiled. "That's for me to know and you to find out. Now come on-I saw those muscles. We're getting you short sleeved shirts to show that off," she said with a grin.

* * *

More shameless cheesey ploting! Props to Angoliel, who helped me write Austen. He's just so cute! Don't we all love him? _hugs Austen> _I'll come clean, this was just to support an idea I had on a French trip to the Art Institute and a dream I had the night before where they were shooting a sequel to National Treasure while our French class was there and I got to talk to Sean. _blush >_I really am pathetic.

**Shoutouts!**

_ Blows kisses to reviewers> _You like me! You really like me! So much I got about 7 reviews in one day! Not a record, but still pretty good!

**Dread Lady Freya- **I'm my own worst critic. Thank you, I am half French. And I'm a French student. Writing the French is fun for me. And yes, Gabe may be the dream woman…_ snicker> _And most definitely having a muse is one of those perks they don't tell you about on the job application…like free coffee and fans.

**CleopatraFan789-** Okay, how's this for bizarre. We have the same hobbies and you have the same name as my best friend! How weird? Glad to know you like my story!

**Terries**- Aww, Haldir_… hug > Not wanting to have Daniel feel left out, Merc hugs Daniel too> _

Are you dissing the French? Do not diss the French, or I will get mad. Despite being a little snobbish and not all 'we have to go be the world's superheroes' like us macho Americans, they are the inventors of high culture. Very appropriate for this fic.

Sorry-I got carried away. Thanks for the 'high recommendation'. I'm tickled pink!

_(And just to clue you all in, Gabrielle _**is**_ the woman in the painting. She'll explain later.)_

**Psycho elf-** You heard me the first time. Don't steal my muse, or I shall get very angry and refuse to write more. But glad you like it!

**Meredith A. Jones**- Aw, sorry you don't like your name. I don't' like mine either. Would you believe there are three _Names censored for confidentiality _in my math class? It's ridiculous. That's why in the online community I'm Merc. Much less common.

I love quiche, BMW is just a classy car (But Gabe's is black), and La Boheme was the only opera I could think of that didn't have a German title like 'Die Zauberflaute', which (I believe) is how you spell the Magic Flute in German. Unfortunately, La Boheme is written in Italian. Go figure.

**Angoliel-** I could tell you, but it's just a pain in the ass, and I've fixed it and will repost. It was an accident, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience.

**Moonjava-** just on a friendly note here, could you pweese try and spell correctly in your reviews? I'm very neurotic about things like that, and bad spelling makes Merc tear her hair out. And lots of people like Merc's hair-it's long and brown and apparently very pretty.

That being said, Thank you! I'm glad to hear you like it, and it seems to me you're saying that it's a skillful continuation of the movie! That is a great compliment.

**Lala182**- oh, okay…you can be lazy this time… shrug You honestly think I care weather or not you sign in? just so long as I get my review, babes, I'm happy. I'm taking your comment as being deciphered as 'yeah, this was better than the rest of them'

So-coolness! I'm glad I'm serving what you feel like eating!

**Butterflykisses71**- After reading your bio, I have one question- are you really from England?

So sorry. I am an Anglophile-I love anything British.

Anyway. I'm going to try and explain myself out of my cheesy plotting, and I'm truly sorry if it doesn't make sense, but hey! What do I know about the American justice system. (It stinks-yeah, yeah, we all know that)

And thanks for the hugs! They, along with heartfelt reviews, make me feel very loved.

So…erm…review? Please? Though I don't know why I ask, you folks seem to like it, and review without my pleading.


	4. Les Tableaux

Chapter four-I really am a writing menace. sorry for the wait- computer troubles left me with no copy of this chapter to post!

Don't own it, except for Ian. _huggles muse _

* * *

Two days later, Ian's clothes arrived, along with a large box that he could only assume was Gabrielle's dress.

"Where are you going with that?" Ian asked after hanging his clothes in his closet, leaning in the door to her room, hands in his pockets.

Gabrielle spun around, a little surprised. "I did say I was taking you to the Benefactor's Dinner, didn't I?"

Ian had remembered hearing her say something about it in Austen Steele's the other day, but she'd never formally proposed the idea to him. "Isn't that a little…bold?" he chose his words carefully. "I mean, I think I'm still in the legal system as 'criminal and at large'" He said with a small laugh.

Gabrielle hung her dress in her closet and walked to the table at the end of her bed, picking up the front page section of the Tribune. She handed it to him and pointed out the article.

**Howe did he do it?**

The word is out- Ian Howe, the criminal mastermind behind plotting to steal the Declaration of Independence is out. More correctly, he's out on parole. "I hesitate to call it parole." Says Dr. Meredith Chrysler, one of the nation's top psychologists, who is overseeing his case. "It's more like house arrest."

This special case scenario seems almost bizarre, but the justice department has an answer. "Mr. Howe is suffering from a type of depression, as well as showing signs of mental strain. As far as we are concerned, he is serving parole, for his health, we may add, under the watchful eye of one of the nation's most trusted security advisors, Gabrielle Campion."

Ian looked up from the paper. "Most trusted security advisor?" he asked skeptically.

Gabrielle shrugged. "Your manufacture the security systems for the Capitol, fulfill a few government contracts, recommend a few things and suddenly you're a security advisor. You don't have to read the rest, they go on about me for the rest of the article."

Ian set the paper back down on her desk deliberately and walked out of the room. Gabrielle gazed after him, confused. "We still have to go to the institute today, Ian." She said softly, leaning in his room.

Ian scowled. "I don't feel like going." He said gloomily, his mouth in an angry line.

"You don't go, I have to call Dr. Chrysler and have her take you back to the state detention facility." Gabrielle said with a warning tone.

"You wouldn't want to go out either if you knew you'd been labeled psychotic." Ian shot back. Gabrielle came in and sat on his bed, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Meredith didn't call you psychotic, Ian, she called you depressed. Which is what you are. And you're also isolating yourself, which is contributing to your depression. Now, Meredith thought that bringing you here, and letting you live like you would, with a few parameters, was the best option. The justice department agreed with her, saying that you were due for parole anyway because of your good behavior. But they didn't want to release you fully because…well, they didn't tell me why, but that's not the point. The point is, Ian, that is supposed to be therapy. But it's a two way street. I give a little, you give a little. You have to be willing to participate. So-go shower, and maybe we'll take a break from the classical art and go see the Museum of Contemporary Art and decipher what it all means, all right?" Gabrielle offered with a smile.

Ian sighed, and nodded. She patted his back. "There's a good man. And don't wear a suit- the dress code is a little less strict for modern art."

* * *

An hour later, Ian and Gabrielle were staring up at a mural made entirely out of gumwrappers.

"What is it?" he asked. Gabrielle shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Come on, we've got a whole museum to see." She pulled him off towards the stairs.

* * *

Ian had more fun that day then he'd had in years. He felt years younger, and every time that Gabrielle laughed he had to laugh with her, the sound was just so beautiful. He couldn't explain it-the feeling was strange, and getting stranger by the hour.

They went home for lunch, Gabrielle having called ahead to see if Eugene was there yet. The penthouse was filled with the smell of grilled chicken when they got home, and lunch was a very laidback affair.

When she had finished, Gabe laid her napkin at the side of her plate and slid her chair back.

"I've got some of the Institute's students coming over here later. It's part of my annual assignment to the entire school-imitate one well known style, have your work displayed in the museum, and see if the visitors can't tell the difference. The painting of me on the first day was an example of that: last year's challenge. This year it's photography. So don't mind the shutterbugs." She said with a little laugh. Ian smiled and nodded, laying his napkin down and going to help Eugene with the dishes. He was in a remarkably good mood today- a little menial labor would be fun.

Drying the last of the pots and pans, Eugene shooed him out of the kitchen. Ian retreated to his room, still feeling very happy, for reasons he couldn't explain.

"Laughter is the very best medicine." He quoted to himself with a smile, clicking the remote to tune the stereo to a CD of Bach and laying back to take a nap.

* * *

When he woke up, there were muffled voices coming from Gabrielle's room at the end of the hall. Curiosity got the better of Ian, and he wandered down to see what was going on.

"Okay, Ms. Campion…Hurt, yes, excellent face there…shift your head a little to the front. Look out the window…Perfect." Ian lingered in the door, watching the two photo students snap away. Gabrielle sat on her bed, the sheets messy, wearing a camisole and her thong and not much else. She was covered by a sheet, but Ian had to stop breathing for a moment. She did have a dancer's body, all long legs and slim arms, perfectly tinted skin. Her hair was drawn up by a clip in her hair, but a few loose tendrils fell over her face, framing it perfectly.

The photo students stopped for a moment. "Look like you're dreading something…yes…yes…perfect. Ms. Campion, do you mind asking your friend to come in?" one of them asked. Ian jumped a little, looking up. His shadow was falling imposingly across the wall. Gabe turned around, almost surprised.

"Oh…Ian…I…didn't …know you were there. Come in- we're using you as a model, I guess." She said, a little flustered. Ian shrugged, and stepped into the room, his hands in his pockets. The photo students adjusted the camera, and began snapping away.

Mentally, Ian took in the scene. Woman half clothed on bed, looking at man, wearing dress shirt with arms rolled up. Woman tense, man relaxed. An interesting combination.

The photo students were all business. "Ian, move forward…Ms. Campion, look away again…Ian, look spurned…" The directions flew like arrows.

Ian didn't know if he was posing any more as he sat next to his guardian, several minutes later, stroking her face, his shirt now open another two buttons. Judging from Gabrielle's breathless look, she didn't know what to think, either.

"Perfect!" the photo student shouted. "Alright, that was excellent! Thank you very much, Ian, Ms. Campion."

"Excellent work, Rupert- I think they'll turn out fantastic." Gabrielle said after a moment, ripping her eyes away from Ian's. _Austen had been right,_ she thought, _he did have wonderful eyes._

She turned away, collecting herself, very conscious that she was in her underwear in front of a man who (she could guess this much) probably thought she was pretty hot.

Ian cleared his throat, not knowing what to say. "Ah…I should…go." He said bluntly, pointing to the door and quickly exiting.

When he got back to his room, he headed straight for the chair by the window and sat down, hard, looking out on the street below. A few people walked past- two women with about five dogs apiece pulling at their leashes, a policeman on his daily beat, several tourist groups headed around tours of the city. Then a couple walked by, hand in hand. They stopped in front of the building, kissed, and then split, the woman walking inside the building.

As Ian watched the couple, he looked at the sketchpad, open to a random page, on the side table near his right hand. He blinked, looked at the sketch pad, and then picked it up and began to draw.

* * *

No comments today- I'll just let the end of the scene sink in.

_(whispered) And thanks for all the reviews!_


	5. The best laid plans

* * *

Chapter five-am I boring you yet? Need I remind you the events that take place in this chapter have no historical base whatsoever, whereas the Knights Templar treasure is reputed to exist.

Okay-I'm sorry this took so long to put up, but I have an epic poem I'm writing for school that's taking up all my writing time. Expect the next chapter by spring break, maybe…Ian the muse decided to take a vacation and not tell me where he went.

And the lack of reviews on the last chapter left me sad.

Anyway-story time!

* * *

The apartment was silent the rest of the day. Ian sketched and mulled over his thoughts, Gabrielle pondered, and the city around them continued it's commute through life, completely unaware that inside one of it's stone buildings two people were contemplating the deepest human emotion of all.

Several hours later, Gabrielle cleared her throat and tapped on Ian's door. The sudden sound startled the man, causing his pencil to skitter across his page in a very unattractive, heavy line. "I was…ah, thinking we could go out tonight. Someplace upscale." Gabrielle said, watching his eyes. They were a very vivid blue-more blue than she'd remembered them being three hours ago.

Ian nodded, his throat dry again, at a loss for words. "That'd be….that'd be wonderful." He said, nodding, feeling like a total idiot. Gabrielle smiled and nodded, similarly at a loss.

* * *

Ian checked his hair one last time in the mirror, straightened his suitcoat, and stood up a little straighter. He looked pretty good, he thought.

"Good enough to be seen in public with a national security advisor." He mumbled, wishing he was ten years younger and not in his date's custody.

_Why am I calling her my date? _He wondered, going out to the car and buttoning his peacoat.

* * *

After three courses of leek soup, a house salad and stuffed mushrooms, Gabrielle was still wondering about Ian's eyes. But she was hiding it well.

"Listen, Ian…I wanted to apologize-for this afternoon. I really shouldn't have put you on the spot like that." Gabrielle said, pushing her mushroom around her plate with her fork, fidgeting. Ian shrugged it away.

"I shouldn't have been spying." He said simply, watching her hands. Finally, he reached over, and stopped her hand. She looked up and set the fork down. "I'm…not sure if I'm breaking a rule here…" he trailed off, leaning over the table a little. Instinctively, Gabe leaned closer, too, a little breathless.

Then her phone rang, and she scrambled to answer it. Ian looked away, closing his eyes and regretting even trying.

"Hello?…You shouldn't have called me here." A pause. "They denied me again! Have you talked about-I see." Her voice rose a little, her eyes hardened a little. "Then they leave me no option. Call Vincent for me; tell him I want a lunch date-tomorrow, the Plaza hotel. Thank you-good bye."

Gabrielle tersely closed her phone, her lips in a tight line. She was angry now, and trying to conceal it. "I'm…I'm sorry." She said. "I really am. We'll…we'll have to continue this another time-I have to get home. Business bunk I've got to take care of."

Ian knew this 'business bunk' was a lie, but he could tell she was upset about something, and so consented to go home, quietly helping her into her jacket and calling the valet to bring her BMW around.

But oh, if he'd only had a chance to kiss her.

* * *

Ian stretched and got out of bed, feeling a little groggy. He'd had an excellent dream last night, and was looking for his sketch pad when he thought again.

No, it'd be better not to write that one down, he decided. A little strange for Dr. Chrysler to read that.

He wandered into the kitchen, surprised to find Gabe there, cup of coffee on hand, already dressed in her suit, looking over-

"Blueprints of the Art Institute?" Ian asked, rubbing his eyes and hoping he wasn't seeing things.

"Yes." Gabrielle said tensely. "Sit down, I want to discuss this with you."

Ian poured himself a generous cup of coffee and pulled up a chair.

"Now- we want to enter the main service entrance with the people setting up for the Dinner-that's here. We'll want to store our clothes in one of the lockers for the visitors near the south entrance-here."

Ian looked at the map. "Um…Gabrielle- what are we doing?" he asked suspiciously.

Gabe looked up at him. "We're stealing this." She said, pushing a printed copy of Monet's "Garden of the Chateau-Saintonge, 1877"

Ian looked at her like she was crazy-which,indeed, was his opinion of her at this exact moment. The only word he could think of was

"Why?"

Gabrielle stifled a little laugh. "This painting has a clue to a treasure I want- a family treasure, actually. I've read your record, Ian-you're the perfect man to help me with this."

Ian backed up from the table. "Oh no. I've had enough of family treasures-I'm not going back to jail!"

Gabrielle patted his arm. "Only if we don't get caught, Ian. Now, hear me out. When Monet painted the Chateau it was because he was at the seaside with his wife and he figured it would be a way to make a few more francs. One of the villagers at the time-my great great great grandfather, watched him paint it and asked in particular to paint in one specific detail-a carving on the outer wall of one of the towers.

"Later, Monet looked at the painting, and, not liking the one detail, painted it over and presented it to it's commissioner-one of the villagers, who never knew about the one detail her neighbor had asked the painter add. It is the only record of the carving on that tower, and I need to know what it was. The institute will not let me borrow the painting, nor will they sell it to me within my current budget. So I have resolved I am going to borrow it without them knowing. Temporarily, of course." She finished with a smile.

Ian's head was spinning. "And why do you need to know what was on the tower?" he asked quietly, still thinking.

"Because it's one of the clues that will tell us where the family treasure's hidden." Gabrielle said with a smile. "By the time I played in that house the elements had taken their toll on the house, and the carving on the tower was long gone, and everyone had forgotten what it even was."

"How much family treasure are we talking about here?" Ian asked, licking his lips.

Gabrielle smiled, knowing she had his attention. "Enough to make the revolutionaries of Robespierre's day jealous-the original Compte de Saintonge was executed by guillotine." She said with a victorious note.

Ian looked at his hands. "What's your plan?" He asked finally, looking back at the blueprints on the kitchen table.

Gabrielle smiled. _Ah-money…money is a currency that's rank_… she thought.

* * *

Need I note that there is no painting by Monet with the aforementioned title, or any historical base to any of the events in this chapter.

Shoutouts!

Sunandmoon42- Thanks!

Angoliel- rolls eyes pervert…yes, next chapter, when I write it.

Meredith A. Jones- Glad to hear it!


	6. Action!

NOTE- I'm not used to the new rating system for yet, so please bear with. This chapter has been rated 'R' by the motion pictures association for sexually explicit content.

ANOTHER NOTE: I don't own any of this, really…Ian, technically, Gabe, technically, Victoria, technically…but other than that, I think it's the movies and the Feds. Terribly sorry. The only other thing I have to say is don't try this at home kids-robbing art museums don't pay morally.

* * *

Ian eyed the Art institute's back entrance, listening to the conversation Victoria Fowler, hacker and ex-girlfriend of his, was having with the guards as she was furiously typing on the laptop, running their test.

Of course, that was what the security personnel were supposed to think. Victoria, being the hacker she was, was uplinking a computer program she'd designed herself into the system to turn off alarms, laser grids, and sensors at exactly the right time. Ian had to smirk. Things go so well when you know the right people, he thought with a smile.

"But why the secretiveness about the testing time? Ms. Campion is very good about telling us these things." the head of security asked.

"Mr. Gibbons, a thief is not going to walk in here and...make a declaration he's about to steal something." Victoria said after a brief pause.

Declaration...that had been the key word. Ian allowed himself another smile. The museum was now defenseless.

Gabrielle shouldered her bag and slid the skeleton key in the lock, opening the normally alarmed door without so much as a squeak. Ian knew the passages through these halls of art like the back of his hand. After so many weeks of wandering these corridors like a man trying to find heaven, he knew them well enough to give exact directions to Victoria on which passages to turn off and which to leave on the security grid. If too many of them were turned off, the system might notice. Gabrielle's programming just worked like that. But she'd been able to tell them the backdoors into the system, giving them a short route into the inner workings of the security system.

Gabrielle hadn't liked the idea of using Victoria, her being Ian's former girlfriend and all – "We weren't dating for that long anyway!" Ian had defended- but the Englishman had been able to talk her into it. "Have you got a better idea?" That statement alone had won his case.

A left here, a right here, a run down a long corridor and another turn. Then-there it was. Garden of the Chateau-Saintonge, by Claude Monet. Adjusting his gloves, he wriggled his fingers, stepping forward.

In approximately fifteen seconds, Victoria would let down the alarms on the paintings themselves. They would have two thirty second windows to get the painting on and off the wall, about ten minutes apart from each other.

Victoria was making small talk with the guardroom, and her chatter was making Ian annoyed. "Hurry up, will you?" he hissed. On the other end, he could hear a pause, and more typing.

Gabrielle got her camera ready and stepped closer as well. Ian checked his watch. Five, four, three, two, one...

"And then…the lights go off!" Victoria was saying in the guardroom. It sounded like she was in the middle of telling them a story-most of it a complex lie that was very carefully scripted.

With lightning quickness, Ian lifted the painting from it's mount, feeling the sensors on the back-they were now cool. Meanwhile, Gabrielle had unscrewed her paint kit, and was dipping her brush into the antique paint remover.

With the care of an art dealer removing dirt from some priceless work, she brushed quickly and deftly over the tower, her strokes dissolving the top coat of paint.

Ian was taking this rather well. His breathing had not quickened, nor was anything else changed in him, as if this were completely legal. He allowed himself a mental smirk. _Ian, you're back in business,_ he thought to himself. His eyes were watching the digital seconds tick away on his watch, listening hard for the next set of code words from his former girlfriend the hacker.

"Hurry up," he hissed to Gabrielle as she held up the camera.

"Don't rush art." the Frenchwoman said, her accent a trace noticeable as she flashed one picture and then began unscrewing the tube that held the reproductive cover she would place over the painting to restore it to it's original state. She'd slaved over that, carefully coping the colors stroke for stroke from dozens of pictures and reproductions of the piece.

She let the paper-thin sheet of careful brushstrokes fall into place. "The heat should remove all trace of the paper once the lights are turned on tomorrow." she said, dusting off her gloves, daintily picking the picture up.

"And then, just before we were going to start the music, the power went out again!" Victoria said animatedly. Gabrielle hung the painting back on the wall, adjusting it to fit around the sensors. Ian looked at his watch again. "It's time to go."

Gabrielle smiled, and took off her gloves, taking the hallway at an easy sprint, pulling off her cap to let her hair come curling over her shoulders.

"Victoria left our dress clothes in the limo." Gabrielle said, shoving her gloves in her pocket and unzipping her vest, taking it off to show the bodice Austen had designed for her dress underneath.

Their costumes had been planned perfectly- her dress was in two parts, top and bottom, and his suit was perfectly wrinkle proof, easy to go running around in.

At the sight of so much of the skin at her graceful neck, his mind went back to the week before, when the art students had asked him to pose with her; she'd been in a camisole and her lacey underpants, and that had been revealing, but this was a little more so, sexier and on the more flirtatious side.

He stripped off his black jacket as well, straightening the cuffs on his dress shirt and, pulling open the door to the limo, swapped the jacket for his suit coat.

Gabrielle was inside, pulling off her pants and slipping the ballet style skirt over her long, dancer's legs. Ian quickly turned away, not wanting to embarrass her more.

"You can come in now." she said, crooking a finger when she had finished fastening the skirt. "Let's go to a party."

Gabrielle snuck her own look as Ian adjusted his suit jacket. His broad shoulders shrugged in a circle as he got comfortable and she could only imagine how it would feel if he held her in his muscular arms. Underneath the skirt, though he couldn't see, her legs pressed closer together. Perhaps it was because her adrenaline was up and she was hot for a fight.

The limo started with a reassuring vroom as Victoria stepped into the front seat, stashing her laptop bag under the seat, pulling a cap over her blonde hair to appear the chauffeur, and they were off, showing up at the red carpet almost exactly on time. "Now, just remember-you haven't just participated in any criminal activities." Victoria said with a smile. "Go and knock 'em dead."

"Oh, we are devils." Gabrielle said with a smile, stepping out onto the curb to the familiar flashbulbs and mass of reporters. Ian smiled and took her arm, ignoring the shouted questions.

The inside of the Plaza Hotel where the Institute's Benefactor's Dinner was being held was a welcome change from outside(it looked like rain)- the classical music swayed softly over the gentle lull of upper crust conversation.

A waiter offered them glasses of champagne, another waiter taking Gabrielle's evening wrap.

Gabrielle looked into Ian's eyes, raising her glass with a little smile. "To a job well done." she said.

Ian nodded, clicking glasses with her. "To a job well done." Looking at her eyes, he could see there was a devil wanting out.

"I'll toast to that too." a voice said from behind them. Ian turned to see a tall, athletic, dark haired man smile at Gabrielle.

"Mr. Stone! Oh, Ian, this is the District Prosecutor. David Stone, Ian Howe."

Ian smiled devilishly as he drank his champagne, his mind turning over the fact he was talking to a lawyer after just finishing some very criminal activities. Over the rim of his glass, he eyed Gabrielle in her silk gown before he turned to Stone.

"Ah...pleasure to meet you." Ian said, hoping his falsity would go unnoticed by the lawyer.

"You two make a lovely couple." David said. "Good to see you've turned him back to legal life, Gabe. Enjoying yourselves tonight?"

Gabe smirked suggestively. "A little." she said mysteriously. David laughed and clapped Ian on the back. Obviously he thought something else was between the two of them than a few secrets.

"I've got to go catch a few other people tonight, but I'll see you two later," David smiled. "Good night!"

Gabe and Ian found their seats, waiting for the director of the board of trustees to begin his speech.

"First of all, I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight to celebrate the contributions you've made to the Institute. We've made great strides in our collections this year thanks to your support." The director continued, but Ian had stopped paying attention to what he was saying.

Gabrielle looked amazing in the soft shade of green she had chosen. His hand found her hip and began stroking her outer thigh as his eyes stayed focused on the speaker. His ears listened for her voice, however. She said nothing but, out of the corner of his eye, she smiled a little.

Then Ian felt her stocking foot tickling the outside of his ankle. Beneath his hand, she squirmed a little as he came closer to her inner thighs. Her ankle reached a little higher past his sock, beneath the table.

Someone in the room cleared their throat, and both stopped, wondering if they hadn't been discreet enough, the tension stretched nearly to breaking.

Ian hid a smile, but his mind's eye was imagining some wolfish actions he could perform later in an unlit bedroom. The victory had gone to his head, too, and he needed a release for celebration.

Dinner got worse for him-he waited through the soup and salad to continue stroking her leg, and it wasn't until dessert that, after he had just taken a bite of the chocolate covered almond torte, that she slipped her hand in the pocket of his trousers.

The combination of chocolate and the champagne had aroused him more, and he was getting hot for a little tempestuous loving. After the speech was done, there would be two more hours of dancing and drinking and general partying, but...they didn't feel like staying any longer.

By the time Ian and Gabrielle got to their limousine, it was beginning to rain. The darkened window between them and the driver (Victoria had gone home, picking up her replacement on the way) was up and locked, so Ian took his chance and pushed Gabrielle back in her seat, his lips devouring her mouth wolfishly.

All the way back to her apartment he kissed her, the rain pouring down even harder as if it could reach them in the comfortable back of the limo.

"I think we're home now," Gabrielle sighed breathlessly when the vehicle pulled to a stop.

"Damn," Ian cursed, his tongue still at her neck, licking her delicious skin.

Gabrielle got quickly out of the car, making for the door in an attempt not to get her dress wet, but Ian pulled her back onto the sidewalk and kissed her hard, the rain only turning him on more. Hugging her tightly close to his body, he gently pulled her head back, kissing her feverishly. The rain trickled between their lips, failing to cool the passion of his tongue in her mouth.

After about ten seconds of blissful rain drenched kissing, Gabrielle pulled away, her hand lingering on his, running up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

Ian grinned, giving her a few moments head start before his long stride raced up the stairs after her, leaping up three steps at a time. When her flight finally reached the top floor, Gabe threw the door open, letting Ian chase her inside, leaving the door to shut itself.

He finally trapped her before she could get too far into her inner sanctum, his hands tight around her waist. "You're a terrible tease, Gabrielle." he said, his voice husky, catching his breath from running up the entire building.

"Oh, but you so enjoy the game, Ian," she laughed, her voice equally low.

"I hope either Austin made this dress easy to come off or he won't mind if I damage it a little in the process...I've seen a lot of skin, Campion, but not all of it, and I know you haven't got that terribly cute camisole on under this." Ian said roguishly, his large fingers groping at the clasps at the back of the bodice.

Sliding upward along his body to tease him more, Gabrielle laughed when she heard a feral growl from his lips. "I wouldn't mind seeing your bare skin either," she hissed as his hand slid down her back to clutch her buttocks tightly.

"I'm not stopping you, 'Elle..." the shortening of her name rolled off his tongue seductively.

Her hands had been eagerly tearing off his tie, his belt, his jacket and was now working off the buttons of his shirt. Gabrielle kicked off her shoes and gasped when she felt Ian's warm hand on the small of her back, her gown sliding off her lithe body.

"Your skin is warm, 'Elle." Ian said, pretending like he had just noticed. Gabrielle smiled, licking her teeth a little. "Yours is warmer." she said with a grin.

Surprising her with his sudden quickness, Ian picked her up and took her to her bed, dropping her on it before climbing over her, trapping her with his knees around her hips.

"I wanted you since the day I had to stare at you half naked for an hour, Elle." Ian said, his hands caressing her chest. Gabrielle smiled. "I've loved you since you first got here, Ian." she confessed, moving her hip just a little to irritate his thigh.

His lips turned into a sudden and yet needy snarl when he felt her hips grind against him. "Elle," he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Say it again." she whispered, watching him.

"Elle." he drew it out this time, his eyes closed. Her hands massaged his chest, caressing the hard muscles that rippled beneath his skin, his breath quickened, became shallower. "Elle," he moaned again. "More..."

Just like she had started, she stopped suddenly. "Give me a little. _Donne-moi une peu._" the sounds of her native language caressed his ears, and his hands slowly began to draw circles around her breast, his fingers feeling warmer with every new touch.

Then his tongue replaced his hand on one breast, slowly caressing her with his wet muscle. She moaned a little, her body arching up to meet his touch. "You taste of chocolates, Elle," he grinned wickedly, continuing to lick her bosom, all the while taking off the slender black thong she was wearing.

Gabrielle moaned again, her hand finding his and squeezing it tightly as they kissed again. "You know the night does not grow young. _Et je tu desire..."_ she whispered when their lips broke apart.

_I desire you..._the words rolled around in his head for a moment.

Ian lifted himself, removing his pants and returning to her arms, kissing the vale of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, her thighs. He lifted his head and slid up to embrace her again.

"_Entoure-moi, ma chere Elle_." Ian said, the French liquid on his tongue. it had been so long since he'd studied in Paris. So many things there...sights, sounds...sex. He hadn't just learned the language while he had been a scholar in the Quarters of the city of light. He pressed his thigh against her so she could feel his member close to weeping for her - hot, stiff and hard as steel.

"So go where you have not gone." Gabrielle said, waiting for him. Dipping his head to suckle on her throat, he entered her, letting her adjust to his size before slowly stroking her silken insides.

She moved a little under him, sighing at the sensation she got. A few whispers of French he didn't understand, and then a plea. "Why do you wait? I burn!" she hissed.

With that, he unleashed the wolf within, letting it devour him completely as he pumped her hard and fast. Her cries of ecstasy drove him on until beads of sweat gave them both a shimmering coat. He could feel her tensing beneath him, as each second went by, tighter and tighter until the tension broke and he felt warm liquid over his member, still in her, still just a little farther from his orgasm. Ian pumped a little more before he exploded inside her.

Her hands untensed, her fingers spreading apart over the sheets of her bed, her sighs quieting down as Ian lay atop her, still inside, listening to her heart beating a mile a minute. "You have a beautiful heartbeat," he whispered quietly.

Gabrielle, catching her breath, smiled, stroking his shoulder and gently rolling him off her, a small gasp as his warmth left her. "You have beautiful eyes. Beautiful blue eyes." she said again, breathless, stroking his face.

"All the better to see you with, my dear," he hissed with a grin.

"All the better to see me sleep." Ian looked hurt, but she closed her eyes, and shook her head a little. "No more…not now. You tire me, Ian...and I not a weak woman." Gabrielle said, laying her head on his chest." Wake me in the morning."

Gabrielle fell asleep to the soft beat of Ian's heart, his slowing breath and the quiet caress of his hand on her back.

* * *

_(runs away dodging bullets from the posse out to get her)_


	7. The Next Morning

It occurs to me I haven't thanked my reviewers in a while. So…. here's looking at you, kids! _(In her best Humphrey Bogart voice)_

On with the story!

* * *

Ian stretched, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes. The window right across from the bed was open and sunlight was- Wait. His room didn't have a window across from his bed.

Then he remembered what had happened last night. He turned to look at the other pillow-and found it empty, empty except for a note and a small jar.

Ian sat up to read the note.

"_Ian,_

_I could paint_

_The sky_

_The stars_

_The sun_

_Or you could..._

_Put passion on the page_

_In brushstrokes of _

_Chocolate and candorous love_

_Aprodiasiaca,_

Shaken, not stirred  
straight up,  
with a twist,  
served with  
the wine of  
two bodies locked together

_With your artist's touch, _

_You will_

_Erase all lines that hid me and_

_Paint me sexy._

_Only it will have to wait until I get home from work. Only one more day till your review board meeting! And I have some good news for you._

_Lots of shameless kisses- Gabe."_

Under that was a kiss in deep red lipstick. Ian looked at the jar. "Naughty, naughty Gabrielle. The French and their chocolate." He said with a smirk, getting out of bed and going to his room, retrieving his suit from where it had been thrown on the floor and getting ready for his day.

He packed up his things, looking forlornly at the calendar on his wall- three weeks was up tomorrow. What news could Gabe possibly have right now? "I guess I'll have to wait to find out." He said, retrieving a shirt and jeans and making for the bathroom.

After showering, dressing, and going about his usual morning routine, Ian found he was without anything with which to occupy his morning and indeed, the rest of his day. He got the paper, read the first few pages over breakfast and after about the sixth article on some mishap the president had had eating rigatoni at a state dinner in Italy, decided he needed to find something else to do with his time.

He attempted watching the news on the big screen TV in the living room and found that dull- more newscasters and what seemed like all of CNN discussing the pasta incident that had turned him away from the newspaper- tried read the top of the stack of best sellers on Gabrielle's coffee table and couldn't concentrate on that either, and then decided the cause was hopeless and went to make himself more toast so he could sit and draw.

While going to pick up his sketchbook and move to the much better lighting in the kitchen, Gabrielle's note caught his eye. Paint me sexy, it said.

"So few words, so many meanings…" Ian thought with a smile, picking up the note, the sketchbook, his pencils, and heading for the kitchen.

"Hello? Ian, love, where are you?" Gabe's slightly British English echoed off the walls of her apartment. But there was no answer.

Tossing her bag on the end table, Gabrielle drew her coat off and hung it in the closet, kicking off her shoes as well to search for her paramour. She found him in his room, a paint brush between his teeth and his bare toes wrapped around one of the rungs of a stool, concentrating vividly on painting something. His eyes kept looking down at his sketchpad. Gabe came over and blew in his ear, kissing the lobe softly. "Miss me much?" she asked, taking the paintbrush out of his mouth so he could answer.

"Does it look like I missed you much?" Ian asked, gesturing at the sketchpad. Gabrielle flipped through it. Page after page of sketches of one reclining woman, sleeping, a sheet's folds captured immaculately rising to cover one breast and leave the other a little open, her arms sprawled in sleep, her fingers slightly curled. Some were studies of her face, and her hand, and the curve of her neck, as if the artist wasn't quite sure he had gotten it right.

"They're very good." Gabrielle said, looking at herself in soft graphite lines.

"They're not the real you." Ian said, his voice low. "I'm not happy with the painting." He pointed his brush at the unfinished splash of colors that looked like some work of Rembrandt had crossed paths with Jackson Pollock, and Modrian had gotten in the way of a good fight.

Gabrielle regarded the picture for a few moments. "I like it. I think it represents the passion you feel for the subject of the painting, and how you can't express it clearly when she isn't here with you."

"I can't express it clearly when she's here with me, either." Ian remarked, setting down his brush with a growl and abandoning artistic pursuits for much more worldly matters.

"So what was it you were going to tell me?" Ian asked, combing his sweaty hair back with his fingertips and watching Gabe stare up at him.

"I have tickets to Paris and travel visas for the two of us. In two months, we'll be sipping coffee in a corner café and discussing how best to excavate a castle that several centuries old." Gabrielle said with a smile.

Ian thought about this a moment. "What about the review board?" he asked, studying the curve of her nose.

Gabe smiled and tickled his own. "All they're going to do is keep you confined for another month, run some drug tests and make sure I haven't been letting you into my secret stash of narcotics, and then review the sparkling clean reports I have written up on your behavior. Certain things have been left out of those reports." She assured him. "Do you think you can wait a month for me, Mr. Howe?" she asked, giving him a sort of puppy-dog face and rubbing noses with him. Ian pretended to sigh.

"I suppose I'll have to…" he trailed off, sounding bored.

Gabe pounced on him, knowing he was playing with her. "Don't give me that tone of voice, Ian, or maybe I'll tell Dr. Chrysler about last night and how you figured out you've been dreaming about me." She threatened, watching his face.

"I still find that odd, by the way. We'd never met before." Ian said, looking up at her.

Gabe laughed. "Fate is a strange one, I'll give you that. I suppose you'll want to sleep before you go before a board of people who want to put you back in prison because you're clearly a threat to society."

"I'm only a threat to high society like your self…" Ian retorted. "And I'm not really in the mood for sleep."

* * *

Like I said, thanks all of you reviewers for being so supportive. I'm juggling a lot now, and these chapters aren't guaranteed to be wonderful. It's just kind of…fluffy. I'm hoping I'll get some plot in after my grandparent's anniversary this summer. We're going out to visit them for two weeks, so I may get some writing done.

In the mean time, I'm going to update my epic poem on fiction press. You should all go and read it, because other people say it's amazing. I'm still getting over the fact that people think it's good, because I did not put as much time into it as I should have.

Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter somewhat. Let's keep those reviews coming!


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